


To Drive the Cold Winter Away

by inseparable



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inseparable/pseuds/inseparable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One man is dead and direwolves travel south of the Wall. By firelight and furs, Robb and Jon rendezvous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Drive the Cold Winter Away

**Author's Note:**

> Robb and Jon are approximately 14 years old.

"Do you think it's true, then? What the man executed today said about the White Walkers?"

Stripping off leather tunic and heavy woolen trews, chill-cramped fingers only getting caught up in the fiddly laces of his undershirt once instead of the usual half dozen or so, Robb dropped everything in a neglectful pile beside the bed. Stone less inviting than the grave greeted his feet and wriggling toes once thick hose were removed, causing goosebumps to rise up on pale, freckly skin.

Getting no immediate response, only silence that bumped against the very walls around them, Robb paused undressing and spared a glance over his shoulder. Seated at the little writing table that comprised exactly half of the furniture in the sparse living quarters was Jon Snow. Brooding again, no doubt. Like a swordmaster slicing the air with the dancing force of his swings, an archer skillfully drawing a bow or a bronzesmith sweating in front of a forge as hammer connected over and over, Jon made mental anguish a true artform.

Something Robb - himself bright and lively as Jon was dark and serious - could hardly understand.

Situated at the far end of the castle, away from the main hub of operations, Jon's room was seldom anything but a dim, shadowy place. The sun hardly visited this side of the world, except on the rare times at midsummer, when bright yellow striations gaily painted the floor. Oak logs burning in the hearth coupled with Robb's presence were the only things that ever truly seemed to cut the gloom. Robb didn’t mind it all that much; he cared little for the surroundings, only the person that occupied the small space. So long as Jon allowed him in, he would continue sneaking over under the cover of darkness until the fateful day finally arrived when _he_ became lord and master. Warden of the North, many would argue his choice, but none would be able to sway him. 

As far as he was concerned Jon was staying put.

Forever.

Smallclothes the very last thing to go, Robb took a moment to stretch. Barely more than a boy, his lean, coltish muscles and tendons popped with the effort of rotating neck and shoulders gone all stiff from too many hours spent in the saddle. The day had been a long, eventful one, to be sure. Hunting down and delivering swift, northern justice to a bedraggled deserter from the Night’s Watch had started it off. Then they’d come across that dead direwolf bitch and her litter. Six healthy pups in all.

_Incredible_ , he thought as he slid under a mountain of furs, a soft grunt of contentment escaping his lips as he burrowed and snuggled his way into the exact spot on the feather tick that he always claimed as his own. _Direwolves this far south of the Wall. I still can’t believe it._

Now if only Jon would join him things would be infinitely better all round.

Often, Robb talked and blathered through elongated silences while Jon quietly listened and mulled over his response. Thinking served a sturdy tool; never saying anything he'd later regret, he took lesson born of all the times he'd thought too little, opening pouty lips and expressing unfiltered words which came prematurely to palate. Too many people functioned forgetting to apply mind to voice and he held himself to a higher standard, determined not to repeat mistakes time and again.

Jon mostly balanced the act well enough and in Robb's presence his prolonged silence was often accepted. Two young lads understanding one another in every aspect, down to definition of callouses hard won from swinging sword now applied to exploring each other’s bodies, young men matured from boyhood. Other times, like tonight, Jon recognised when he'd completely forgotten to respond. Lost in thought, the quiet stretched beyond measure until not even Robb could think of anything to say, patiently waiting for Jon to pick up slacked ends of conversation. 

For a time, Jon continued to sit at his desk and stare mutely down at the two fluff balls curled nose to tail by the hearth.

Light and dark smoky grey furs covered Robb’s pup, colours varied as the granite stones upon which both direwolves slept. Brothers nestled in tight and warm, Jon’s own pup was white, albino runt of the litter with haunting eyes eerily reminiscent of the sacred weirwoods worshipped prominently by their pledged bannermen.

The wee pup had made exactly _one_ tiny squeak since their execution party first discovered the litter that afternoon. All five of its brothers and sisters already bundled safely into human arms ready for the trek back to Winterfell, Jon stopped dead in his tracks. A single, shrill yap pleading _Take me too, Jon Snow_. Runted white pup stuck in the twisted bramble, he plucked the poor beast up by the scruff.

_Ghost_ , Jon named him then, claiming the pup as his own, _For that is what he is. The ghost of a direwolf, so very small, so very quiet_.

The wild beasts seemed to understand their situation on a level which made Jon sit slightly stiffer in the saddle during their ride back to the Great Keep. Their mother was dead, a stag's antler driven through her heart as an archer's arrow playing at bionic buck. The significance of which Jon refused to touch with a nine foot spear, too concerned already with the symbolism of five coloured and whimpering pups followed by one silent as the grave. That pup, _his_ familiar, belonged much further north than the others where a pure coat was prized amongst the ice and ageless snowbanks present through winter, spring, summer and autumn.

In Winterfell, Ghost was as much the wandering outcast as Jon. Such a frightening coincidence could not by definition be; there was simply more to it than that, though Jon had not yet put his stubby finger on a summary of concerns.

"What if yours cries out?" he replied suddenly, voice almost too quiet to hear above the crackling of last year's firewood. "Someone could hear and come looking. White Walkers real or not will be the least of our troubles then."

Eyes still locked on bonded littermates, Jon avoided Robb’s, knowing they would be latched to the back of his head from beneath piles of soft pelts. Those were eyes he could not look into without caving. Even watching the two impossibly small wolf pups, chests rising and falling rapidly all budged up together the way he wanted to be budged up to Robb was easier temptation to behold than face his lover’s lordly gaze.

Like it or not, they played a dangerous game; highborn yet powerless, not a single soul in the whole of the castle would take kindly to discovering the heir to Winterfell in his chambers.

"Grey Wind knows better," was Robb's all-knowing, all-seeing reply only a cocksure teenager would give and actually _believe_ to be absolutely, unfailingly true.

Grey Wind. Already quite the title to live up to, much like the title its auburn-haired owner possesed. Fleet of foot, strong and unforgiving as the winter gales, the name conjured up from out of nowhere it seemed. No rhyme or reason behind how Robb had come by it, only that when he'd held the squirming bundle in his arms, and their matching light eyes caught and held, Robb simply _knew._

_The direwolf told me so._

"Besides," he added, curling an arm under his head to prop himself up and to better view Jon's silhouette against the golden firelight. "He's got a fully belly and warm place to nap. Ghost will keep him company..."

Growing more and more impatient the longer Jon sat and stewed, Robb twiddled his fingers amongst the short, plush strands of fur. Twisting and threading elk, wolf and reindeer pelts until _that_ got boring and his hand delved under the covers. Typical of his age, Robb was always randy, always ready to go, and it only took a few lazy pulls to get his prick standing at attention.

"Are you just going to sit there all night and freeze or are you coming to bed?"

They'd gone over this at least a hundred times already, and Robb had a completely justifiable excuse why he would be locked in Jon's quarters after hours. Well, two, really.

The cold was the first. Often on chillier evenings - those were coming more and more frequently of late - the boys would sleep two, sometimes three a-bed to keep warm. Usually Theon ended up being the odd fellow with Robb situated in the middle. Giving off much-coveted extra warmth in slow, rolling waves, Robb was the prize heated bedstone to snuggle up against in the castle. Those were the nights he hated the most, though. Father's ward snored too damn loud and Jon always ended up even more tight-lipped and mopey than usual.

Why? Because they really couldn't get away with much. So close and yet so far. A few stolen kisses and, if the gods happened to be listening to their silent plea, palming each other through sex damp smallclothes to a quick release. Hearts thumped wildly in their chests at the thrill of possibly getting caught on those long, agonizing nights. Any moment the snoring might stop and all would be lost. Theon dearly loved holding information over people - _especially_ Jon Snow. His most favorite target of all.

The second was a bit more far-fetched but still entirely plausible.

Alcohol. And imbibing too much of it. 

Verbal whipping delivered, Jon stirred from his reverie. _Let go of it all_ he told himself, _Forget the world outside these walls because he's right_ here _, in_ your _bed._

All day long, anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms, Robb belonged to duty. Heir to the Warden of the North, a treasured little lord by family and subjects. Son, brother, student, master; so many roles Robb fulfilled for all of Winterfell but there alone in Jon's chambers they belonged wholly to one another. Curious lovers, _mine_ and _yours_ ; the way Jon wanted things to stay with every last childish hope of a summer grown boy. 

Of any lesson learned from the day’s events it was that the future held uncertainty. A madman might see White Walkers and trade his life for proof. Direwolves could wander too far south and be brought down by fate. Neither the old gods nor the Seven knew what tomorrow would bring - and if they did they played a cruel game keeping mum - but tonight by firelight and furs the world belonged to young lovers.

Standing and tucking oaken chair beneath writing desk, Jon crossed his chambers to perch on the edge of the feathered bed, back to Robb straight and stiff.

"Unloose me," he instructed, the one and only time Jon ever gave Robb a command. Squires turned away on nights when boys would pretend to be men beneath the sheets, helping hands required to peel away thick leather, wool and linen to expose appetizing flesh below.

When Jon felt the laces of his jerkin give he helped to shed dusty leather outerwear, revealing a ladder of buckles and straps to be worked through next. Neck to waist, Robb’s fingers flew expertly, now warmed by body and bed. Off came the quilted linen gambeson, then wool cotte tugged over unkempt curls leaving Jon in a simple linen shirt and joined woolen hose. Layers, the key to survival this far north of the Trident.

Much as Robb was always eager to help, particularly with gusset fastenings, Jon was fully able to attend matters alone from here on. 

"I can do this part," he insisted, gripping Robb by the wrist and uncurling too bold fingers.

Standing again Jon unlaced, moving quickly to gather all exterior garments and lay them neatly over the back of the oak chair. Priceless clothes demanded proper treatment, especially in the absence of tidy attendants. The only set he owned - with exception of finer garments for feasts and ceremonies - unlike Robb, Jon could not simply order more made because he'd been childish and left his clothing to spoil on icy stone floors.

Neat and tidy back to bed, off came shirt and thigh-length braise, the only two items unceremoniously shucked to the floor knowing in a few hours he'd reach from beneath the furs to retrieve his modesty. Just in case Robb was wrong and Grey Wind did howl in the night.

Shifting onto his side beneath a mound of pelts already made warm by the occupying body, Jon reached forward and dutifully wrapped his hand around Robb’s stiff cock, brown eyes finally locking on blue. Familiar rhythm established immediately, no pretense, just exactly what each was there to accomplish.

"Do you think Theon is jealous?" he wondered aloud, still squirming to get comfortable. "Of the pups."

Sensing the uneasiness as well as he could read the myriad of other emotions Jon hid so very thoroughly from everyone else, Robb slipped a leg over narrow hip, inviting Jon further into the heated, welcoming space he'd created.

"He's a _kraken_ , Jon," Robb gently reminded his ever-fretful bedmate. Alone and finally naked as the day they were born - Robb down in Riverrun and Jon somewhere in parts unknown - he could now shed the heavy mantle of highborn, _firstborn_ son and speak directly from the heart instead of his head. Calling him Jon instead of Snow, denouncing shameful status with an easy fingertip flick and replacing it with a far more important label.

Soulmate.

"The Ironborn have no love for things from the North. Salt brine and seawater flow in their veins; not blood. You know it as well as I."

Jon and Theon mixed about as well as a jar of wildfire and a hot day in Dorne, with equally as disastrous effects. The two often clashed over the most piddling, insignificant things. Always the instigator, Theon knew _exactly_ what set Jon off, made him feel slighted and degraded him in ways that were truly malicious. Relentless in his taunting, oftentimes Robb had to step in and break them up. Play the role of the sensible mediator because that's what he'd been told to do. 'Befriend Theon,' Father had commanded soon after his arrival. 'Make him feel welcome and show him the ways of the North.'

It had been that way from the very beginning. Sent to Winterfell as a begrudging promise the Iron Islands would _never_ attempt another uprising, House Greyjoy had offered up a reedy, meddlesome boy as their pledge.

One rung further down the ladder went Jon. Another insult added to an already long list.

"He's not one of us." Reassuring Jon at times like this had become as natural as walking, breathing or wielding a sword at full gallop. As did the way their bodies immediately synced; greedy fingers latching onto flesh and bone.

"He will never _be_ one of us."

_And neither will I..._

They would pretend. Deny the truth until the very stones of Winterfell crumbled away and hidden hot springs heating ancient walls flooded the inner courtyard. Till White Walkers, giants and the Children of the Forest returned to living memory; heart trees began speaking with voices of gods, the Wall melted and winter ceased to come again. Ignoring truths to the ends of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond the Narrow Sea would change exactly nothing. 

Jon was as much _one of them_ as Ghost was pigmented. A bastard of the North, neither wolf nor kraken. Just ice and stone.

Legs tangled together in bed, Jon would argue nothing Robb proclaimed to be fact. Glad to cling to the last vestiges of youth and procrastinate a finality that would, despite stubborn insistence, eventually come to pass. Childish games turned intimate and serious with only broken hearts and torn souls as consolation prizes for a try well done. 

_Just one more night_ , he always chanted. _After that you can turn him away but one more night won't stop the sun from rising._

One turned to a week into months and years. Robb always asking for more and Jon never finding the courage to turn him down because he wanted it too! Robb's lips against his own, the splintery scratch of stable bedding or tree bark slicing up tender skin as impatient hands and bodies fumbled, learned, _understood_. To wake up not alone and feel for the only time in his short life as if he truly belonged to something.

Jon may not have been nor ever could be _one of them_ , but he was Robb's. Always, forever and beyond. That much was fact. Dragons themselves could not char Robb's name off his heart.

"Do you want just this tonight or that _other_ thing?" Jon asked when Robb's stormy eyes indicated he'd been too silent for too long yet again. 

No further encouragement needed, Robb set about burying his fingers in midnight black curls that were softer than goose down the same way he would soon bury his cock deep inside Jon. That _other_ thing as Jon called it, was exactly what had him grinning from ear to ear. A bright, impish flash of teeth, reserved only for the more tender moments that occurred between the two best friends and now bonded lovers.

Time well spent discovering each other in the sacred godswood, down in the crypts, the stables, up against the wall in a dusty, unused portion of corridor, and more recently, Jon's chambers. Always in Jon's bed, never his own. Jon never came to him, it was always the other way around. Robb was forever chasing Jon, the ever-elusive stag bounding through the mists, always just out of bowshot.

The hunt was what made it all the more enticing, though. A quick tumble with one of the scullery maids or tagging along with Theon to the brothels never interested him in the slightest. It was _Jon's_ plump, inviting mouth Robb had wanted to kiss from the very beginning - all tongues and teeth and completely wanton - over and over again, knowing full well no mere touch from a woman could ever elicit the same sort of reaction deep in his belly and beyond.

_This_ is why he made the trek across the length of the castle at all speed night after night, dressed in clothing hardly fitting for extreme temperatures. Comfortable, less cumbersome attire free of any buckles and straps and infinitely easier to get out of (and back into if the need arose). His cloak had covered him, of course; warded off the dampness inherent in the ancient stones. The heavy, voluminous folds made him near invisible. Only the oversized fur collar - the one bit of show allowed in such harsh country - tawny and absorbing the light until it matched his coppery locks singled Robb out in a crowd.

"Did you find the present I left in your pocket?" his question a whispered sigh against sparse stubble. Still grinning, Robb latched those strong teeth at the base of Jon's throat, to worry and suck the flesh until a mark appeared.

Before the night was through he vowed to lay claim to every inch of Jon's body. The sound of Jon whimpering and mewling as a young lamb might pure music to his soul as he reveled in the hard, muscular angles and jutting hip bones more inviting than any painted whore, serving wench or bannerman's doe-eyed daughter.

Anxious as a trapped rabbit under best circumstances, Jon felt surprisingly at ease bearing Robb’s dark welts. Even high underneath his chin where adolescent stubble had yet to fill patches of baby flesh still resisting puberty, intimate, dangerous secrets bonding them closer than any sibling or ward of _Father’s_. Jon was proud to be claimed by Little Lord Winterfell and infinitely grateful for the high collared fashion prevalent in the north which hid evidence so effectively. Long as snow stuck to the ground and cold drove necessity for layers of thick wool and lanolin soaked leathers, Robb was free as a king to do as he pleased, encouraged the whole while by Jon’s muffled grunts and legs willingly spread like one of Theon’s gold-hungry whores. 

"I did," he replied, head tilted back to obey the tug at his scalp. 

Dark eyes drifted shut, Jon’s world narrowing further, down from caring about everything within his chamber walls to only the occupants of feather bed. Grey Wind and Ghost, the roaring fire, his clothes neatly folded and Robb’s an untidy pile on cracking stones all forgotten beneath the scrape and tug of sharp teeth gnawing at his throat the way Robb often gnawed on steaks of venison in the Great Hall. 

He was never gentle. A true son of the north, harsh and rigid and demanding, always taking but never more than he was willing to return because Robb was noble like his Lord Father, a _good_ man. The best man. 

Jon never asked for repayment. 

Simply grateful for the opportunity to give Robb everything, he was always on the receiving end of tender scalps, weals that lasted days and bitten bruises which faded long after those received in the training yard. Most recently, he’d started to experience sore bottoms felt while riding his horse, every hooved step a bittersweet reminder of the night before and Robb’s systematic, thorough claiming over his body. 

Jon loved every last purpling mark. To feel controlled and kept and not have to struggle with thinking anymore because that was the one thing he certainly needn’t devote any further time. Nights like this when there was no doubt in either lad’s mind what lay in the other’s heart no matter that words were never exchanged in confirmation. 

Shifting up against Robb’s subtle protests - fingers tightening in black locks, teeth biting _hard_ until skin began to peel - Jon rolled onto his side and propped against an elbow, reached over to the nightstand and plucked up a small bit of folded linen. Inside lay several strips of dried summer apple, red skin bright against golden meat. 

"I saved it to share with you," he explained, hunkering back down into bed with their prize between them, a holy and revered dessert filched from the pantries. Beneath the furs, Jon’s ankles locked with Robb’s, forever seeking his comforting warmth. "I know they’re your favourite." 

Any protest would fall on deaf ears as Jon was stubborn as a mule and twice as likely to dig in stiff heels once he'd made up his mind on something. Robb was touched by the gesture, the once lascivious look he wore quickly turning all boyish at the unexpected treat. A playful cuff to Jon's shoulder - rock hard from so much practice in the training yard and now broader than his own; when had _that_ come about? - before he snagged with glee a slice from outstretched hand. Unlike Jon, who still fancied the heavier, gooey sweet honey cakes of their childhood, Robb's tastebuds had matured the last little while, driving him toward more delicate flavors and textures. Dried fruits of any kind: apples, pears, berries and apricots were his best-loved sweet now. _Especially_ apricots, those Robb would greedily hoard, smacking away pilfering fingers that got a bit too close for his liking.

"They are," he agreed, smiling around his bite and immensely happy that Jon was always willing to share, despite life often treating him to the contrary.

It had begun as a prank when they were still barely out of the nursery. A tiny, smelly brown toad deposited into the pocket of the unsuspecting victim (Jon, of course. He was never one to initiate such mischief) in hopes it might start a ruckus while breaking their fast. It hadn't, surprisingly enough; Jon was always the more steady, unflappable of the two boys. But the _next_ morning when Robb reached into _his_ pocket and came up with a handful of wet, squirming salamanders, the game was on.

Evolving at a slow, steady pace as things often do, toads and slimy things became acorns, a precious scarlet leaf from the weirwood or a pretty stone. Any tiny bauble or trifle that one thought the other might like. Robb and Jon's treasured way of continuing their relationship outside cold granite chambers and right under everyone's nose.

Secreted away, but with absolutely no secrets kept between them.

Swallowing the last of his apple, Robb shifted until their cocks met, the movement drawing out a small, shuddering moan. Not that he wished to hurry things up a tad - well, he _did_ which was nothing new - but Robb really wanted Jon tonight. More than usual, in fact. He wasn't exactly sure why, except that he instinctively _knew_ things were beginning to change. He could feel it in the way the wind blew; and it made him restless.

“I’d quite like to fuck you now,” Robb freely admitted. Latching onto Jon’s wrists, he pivoted them upward, until arms rested akimbo above that riotous mop of hair. Always the instigator, the one who moved ornately carved wooden sigil heads across a map, Robb had absolutely no reservations speaking his thoughts aloud.

Nose to nose and breathing the same air, the frisson grew and expanded between them. A long, very long moment passed, eyes as blue as a robin’s egg locked and held its darker partner. Robb could drown in Jon’s soulful stare if he let himself, a fact that sometimes overwhelmed him; sucked the breath from his lungs and set the heart hammering a loud, steady tattoo.

The only remedy he’d found to truly cure the condition was to bite at those lips in a way too harsh to be properly termed a kiss, the act coaxing a low groan from Jon. Eager tongue probing, searching, _tasting_ what was left behind from their late night snack, and Jon allowed him in, pliant and giving as always.

Overpowering Robb would have been easy now that a man's body stood in place of a boy's. Sudden bucking hips upsetting tender balances, brick layered abdomen working in conjunction with fast reflexes to toss off the tall, wiry frame currently pinning Jon's much broader, heavier one to the tick. His hands taking control around Robb's wrists and sealing reversal the way physical attributes truly connoted their roles. The larger, calculating brute covering and taking to heel his antsy, fiery-haired partner.

Only their roles were so very convoluted. The Lord and the Knight, the leader and the follower. Bodies mixed with opposing personalities rendering Jon all too happy languidly grinding stiff prick against stiff prick instead of wrestling for dominance. Arms relaxed above dark curls while teeth clacked and tongues did all the battling.

Jon the thinker, Robb the heart. 

Though by every definition and every song brought to Winterfell's halls by wandering minstrels, the warrior should have been driven by love and emotion while the man sitting the highborn chair wielded power with logic and firm sensibilities. Somehow, by some twisted mistake, Robb and Jon were a piecemeal of all attributes, completely entangled in every facet as a single fate plaited from two strands; remove one and the other's structure crumbled completely.

One could not thrive without the other.

"Do it, then," Jon gave his permission, squirming beneath body and furs to spread his legs, allow Robb to sink further against him. Groins began to act independently from the rest, rutting in ways only young men still learning instinct could achieve. Half awkward and overeager, but so very _perfect_.

"It's why you came here. And I want you to," he expanded, latching ankles around Robb's and sucking hard on a bottom lip larger than a mouthful. "I've wanted you since the moment we broke our fast." 

"I know," Robb grinned, canines flashing in the firelight. "You couldn't take your eyes off me the entire time..."

Jon Snow knew how to be very discreet; how to keep his voice low and movements sparse and penny-pinching as a peddler. A lifetime of silently tiptoeing along the peripheral of everyone's vision assured it. But sometimes he forgot himself; forgot his station when Robb insisted he sit a meal at his right side instead of Theon. Elevating Jon back up to prized companion. Not that he wasn't already, but best to keep up appearances to family and household anyway.

Robb would _always_ trust his opinion over everyone else's because Jon had no hidden agenda; no political axes to grind. A crucial trait for a future advisor in Robb's small council.

"Or during archery practice," he added, a bit smug as he gave one last nip to scruffy chin before he sat up. Robb had felt the hot prickle at the nape of the neck that afternoon, signalling he was being watched beyond the steely gaze of Ser Rodrik.

Jon kept a tiny, corked glass phial under one of his pillows. Scrabbling for oil from the bedside table or tucked away in a pouch that hung from a peg by the fireplace had just become far too tedious for impatient young men so very hungry for each other. Neither wanted to break away from often frantic rutting so they'd found keeping a bit close at hand - not enough to make a huge mess if it leaked, but more than enough for Robb to drizzle into his palm and rub against blushing cockhead.

"Belly or back or astride a horse tonight?" Without fail, Robb _always_ gave Jon the final say in their coupling. Depending on how his day unfolded generally dictated how Jon wanted to be treated. And while Robb _should_ have insisted on always putting Jon in position of lower standing - it was his right by birth and unwritten Westeros bedchamber law - he chose otherwise.

Eyes locked on Robb's hand openly oiling in preparation, each self pleasuring stroke tying knots in Jon's vocal cords. Silence of a new sort made worse at every attempt to swallow down the obstruction. 

How easily Robb commanded conversation or silence from him without ever speaking a word. A guiding touch to his elbow, carefully selected items smuggled into pockets, a twitch of upper lip while being scolded or a thwap with the flat of foible in the yard was all it took for Robb to bend Jon beneath unyielding northern will. Nothing the little lord had learned from years of study with Maester Luwin nor lessons sung from Mother's lips or Father's hand. Robb's penchant for wielding people easily as he did blade a born attribute, stunning as his Tully red hair and Sapphire Isle blue eyes. 

"I've ridden enough for one day," came Jon's reply at last, words raked over ice and stone as he tore his gaze from between Robb's legs.

Rolling onto belly, Jon lay down right in the middle of the mattress, prime real estate for the night's activity. A position where fingers could still lace intimately together while Robb's body lay full against every curve of Jon's, avoiding tangled legs and hips aching from unnatural and awkward bending. Panted gasps coming in at the back of Jon's neck which would undoubtedly be ringed in black and red by morning. 

This was his favourite. Firmly held in place between lover and bed while the rest of the day Jon floated unsure of where he truly belonged. Robb knew, of course, overconfident in his birthright and natural personality. Jon's place would always be right beside him, beneath him. Where one went the other was born to follow.

Clamping teeth against full bottom lip, Robb stifled a sigh that always wanted to make itself known whenever he saw the pale, bare-bottomed outline of Jon Snow. If he were a poet or painter, he would try and capture the sight of light against dark. A delicate shadowplay for his and his eyes only; to hold onto it forever more. Spinning words into romantic tales or images dabbed on canvas, delighting in his creation. Robb had no such inborn talents, though. Youth and emotional inexperience kept him from voicing what he truly felt in his heart about Jon, the only way he knew to express it was in tiny acts kept well hidden from view around the Great Keep and countryside.

Wishes and dreams left unspoken or not, Robb knew he had to concentrate on the _now_ and not waste precious seconds fantasizing like some lovestruck farmer's whelp over a flaxen-haired milkmaid.

He did allow himself a _single_ small frivolity: A long moment to run the knife edge of his hand beginning at the nape, down knobbly spine to twin dimples that resided above a curving backside that was just as round and ripe as those apricots Robb so favored. Two oil-slicked fingers breached Jon's entrance, welcoming him with a warm, soft pulse of muscles well accustomed by now to such ministrations. A staggering heartbeat plus one was all Robb waited - all he could stand to wait - before slow, practiced stretching began. 

This was where and when true intimacy occurred. Cradled against each other, Robb could let nearly his full weight rest upon Jon, knowing well the other young man would gladly bear the burden. 

They carried one another, you see, but in very different ways.

Biting a shoulder none too gently, Robb breathed in the scent of woodsmoke, leather and the pungent smell of the lye and rosemary soap his bedmate used that always clung to shiny curls and skin and was so specifically _Jon_ that Robb knew he could pick him out of a hundred men while blindfolded.

"Don't ever let anyone else do this to you. This is mine and mine alone. I command it."

_Because you belong to me._

Robb's words sunk deeper than the fingers plying Jon past polite restraint into breathy appreciation. Two first now three, slipping in up to the webbing and pressing, _twisting_ gasps from stalled lungs and driving impatient hips to grind his trapped cock against the lovely feather tick. Words that touched heartstrings no wintertown whore or swooning, mild-mannered maiden had yet managed to pluck despite fevered attempts. 

Jon would never allow it now he'd been given a direct order. 

_No one else will ever do this to me, I swear it_ , he repeated the vow in mind, "Alright" and a nod his single word and action chosen as receipt for Robb's benefit. A promise easily sworn as sword to service, one life pledged to the protection of another. On and off the field Jon's body, his very heart, belonged to Robb, if only boys were worldly and wise enough to recognise and fully commit beyond playful blood-brother oaths made during sticky summer heat waves grappling in the Godswood.

Unreciprocated devotion had a single terminus suitable in the long term to neither man, yet it remained the road traveled hand-in-hand because no other was fitting for such perfectly matched souls.

What Jon _did_ understand with a slick of rot gumming up grey matter was however they chose to adjust actions and treatment of the other in intimate quarter, birthright still lorded over their couplings. Kept Jon from demanding Robb also never do this to another; he had no right to the claim, shameful bastardly status insuring Jon was able and willing to make and fulfill every promise asked of him. Lay with no one else, kiss no one else, devote himself to no one else; it would not be difficult for there existed no soul in all of Westeros capable of coming close to the Tully-haired lord leaving yet another cherished bruise along the curve of developed deltoid.

Robb did not possess that luxury and Jon was not fool enough to request. 

One day he would marry. Whom and when instructed to do so Robb would bed her and breed her. Duty as future Warden in the North to provide issue and Jon's to stand by and watch, all the while feigning happiness. 

Though these were thoughts for another time, pushed stubbornly away as Jon felt Robb shift above him and angle boyish hips with confidence far above his experience. Driving royal prick through readied muscles and pulling from bit-swollen lips a final, unquestionable affirmation, "Only you, Robb..."

Robb would give them what they wanted - a small army of fiery-haired babes quickening inside the belly of whichever bannerman's broodmare Father deemed appropriate - with little in the way of protest. The duty instilled in his psyche almost from birth, he knew any and all resistance would be futile, but a true love match between houses would never come of it, though. Robb's heart was already spoken for and locked away, key forged and handed over when he and Jon were barely out of the nursery. Robb would deftly juggle pesky duties of bedding his wife (but only to create more heirs; keep her pregnant and their sleeping chambers separate) _and_ making sure Jon remained close by and content. A true tightrope act of mummery, to be sure, but he knew of no other clear solution.

Robb had given it much thought these past few years. When young lord and raven-haired bastard boy had looked and looked again and found the other to their liking. Coming full circle in a way; just as they came full circle in Jon's sleeping quarters night after night.

He simply would not give this up for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms. No shiny crown or the might of a dozen dragons from times long forgotten could tempt him so. There was little in the way of _real_ power Robb could wield right now, but that would all change someday.

He _would_ bend the world around him to suit more comfortably. In the meantime, he would simply have to remain patient; temper and emotions fully in check. Become more and more like Jon.

Any remaining worries of winter - both the literal and proverbial - looming on the horizon were buried just as hilt-deep as he buried himself inside Jon; the act making him stronger, less afraid of what was coming.

And when they kissed, one heart heard the other speaking loud and clear.

"Only you, Robb..."


End file.
